


Sunshine

by catiewithac



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Frontotemporal Dementia, Gen, Kind of a songfic?, POV Scott McCall, not medically accurate at all, small appearances of other characters, small coda to Motel California
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catiewithac/pseuds/catiewithac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loves his name, or at least that's what he says.<br/>Stiles loves his name, but he loves his best friend more.<br/>Stiles loves his name, and he's terrified of never hearing it again.<br/>Stiles loves his name, or at least that's what he says whenever Scott has to remind him what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I wrote a oneshot surrounding the lyrics to You Are My Sunshine. It's kind of a trope already, but I had the idea and it stuck. I spent a couple months coming back to this and finally finished it while I was supposed to be doing homework. Classic. Anyway, I'm a sucker for these boys. This was inevitable.

you are my sunshine, my only sunshine

Stiles loves his name, or at least that’s what he says. They are six years old and Scott like going to his house because Mrs. Stilinski makes the most delicious sugar cookies. The boys are sitting in the grass in the backyard with two cookies each, devising a plan for how to get more. They are laughing and grinning and whispering far too loudly when Claudia opens the back door.   
“You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking,” she says with a hidden smile and a raised eyebrow.  
“How am I supposed to know what you’re thinking?” Stiles answers innocently.  
“Mmhm,” she replies, “I never should’ve named you after your grandfather. You’re much too alike.”  
With that, Claudia goes back inside, leaving Scott intensely curious. He takes a big bite of cookie, letting the sweetness melt in his mouth, before blurting out the question.  
“Your grandpa’s name is Stiles?” he asks.  
“No, stupid, that’s a nickname.”  
“Oh. Right. What’s your real name again?”  
Stiles stuffs the last of his cookies into his mouth, swallows, and takes in a huge breath.  
“I never told you, and I never will,” he states firmly, “It’s too good of a name for people to ruin it.”  
“How would I ruin it?” Scott questions, feeling slightly hurt.  
“It’s not your fault,” he reassures, “Nobody can say my name right. Only my mom and dad are allowed to say it and usually my dad messes it up too.”  
“Oh, okay,” he replies, “You like your name a lot, huh?”  
“I love it, Scottie,” he says with a tremendous grin, “It’s just perfect.”  
They soon dismiss the subject and return to the cookie-stealing plan, but secretly Scott wants to know his name. He wants the honor of having that sacred knowledge, because he knows it means a lot to Stiles. And he wants to be best friends with him. He wants Stiles to trust him. He makes him laugh and insults the people who tear him down. Scott is sick of the taunts and the loneliness, and Stiles takes him away from that.   
And he makes a vow. From now on it’ll be just them against the world.

you make me happy when skies are gray

Stiles loves his name, but he loves his best friend more. They are ten years old and Scott doesn’t like to hear his mom cry. It’s eleven pm and he is alone in his dark room, face pressing against the glass of his window as he watches his dad drive away. When the taillights fade into nothingness, he lets himself cry. He lets himself collapse onto his bed and sob into the pillow.  
Ten minutes pass before he drags himself down the stairs and towards the landline telephone. Melissa is holed up in her room and Scott blocks out the soft yet unmistakable sounds coming from it. He picks up the phone and dials the number he’s had memorized for years, his finger shaking throughout the process. It rings and rings and he feels himself begin to cry harder, thinking that he won’t answer.  
But then he does.  
“Scott? Is that you?”  
“Yeah,” he answers, voice trembling and hoarse, “Stiles… Stiles, he finally left. He’s gone.”  
He’s sobbing now, eyes squeezed tightly shut and body bent over slightly, but he can still hear Stiles.  
“I’m coming over, okay?” he says, “Don’t worry, I’m coming over.”  
“Okay,” he squeaks.  
“I have to hang up, alright?”  
“A-alright,”  
Scott hears him hesitate before the telltale clicking and then he could only wait. He knows he could walk a few steps to the couch but instead he curls up on the kitchen floor and leans against the counter. The tile is cold but he thinks that he needs it as he holds his head in the folded arms atop his knees.   
Times passes. It’s hard to tell how much. But then there are footsteps on the stairs and someone crouches down next to him.  
“Scottie?” he whispers, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Let’s go back upstairs, okay? I left your window open.”  
He nods and slowly stands up, letting Stiles hold him slightly as they climb the stairs. Upon entering his bedroom, Scott crawls under the covers and his best friend soon joins him. For several minutes, they just lay there and stare at the ceiling. He thought he would feel better now. But he doesn’t. Not really.  
“It’s gonna be okay,” Stiles tells him quietly, “It hurts right now. It feels really really bad right now. But it can’t be that way forever.”  
Scott whimpers and nods and wraps his arms around his best friend. There’s something good in that. It feels maybe just a little better. But he’s still crying. And then Stiles mutters a word and he is confused because it sounds like nothing he has ever heard before.   
“What?” he asks, lifting his head and squinting his eyes.  
“That’s my real name,” he answers before saying it again.  
“Oh,” Scott replies, pulling away and sitting up a bit, “I thought you didn’t want to ever tell me.”  
He sits up to lean against the headboard, smiles sadly, and shrugs.  
“I trust you,” is all Stiles says.  
And then Scott smiles too, fairly wide and genuine.   
“Wow, thanks,” he says, wiping his red-rimmed eyes, “Can you say it again?”  
Stiles nods understandingly and repeats. He says it again and again, syllable by syllable, writing it down and teaching him patiently. Scott listens and repeats, concentrating hard. This is Stiles’s greatest treasure. This is what his beloved and dead mother called him, what only she could say correctly. He’s giving it to Scott so he could feel better.  
And he does. Amazingly, he does. It’s a welcome distraction and it makes his heart swell because Stiles chose him and only him. He biked to his house well after dark just to comfort Scott. He trusts him with the sacred knowledge of his given name.   
So they practice until they fall asleep and, in the morning, Stiles sneaks back to his house. Melissa goes to work with puffy eyes and Scott is alone again. But he doesn’t cry. He studies what Stiles had written last night and says it over and over again. Over and over and over.  
And so, when Scott shows up at the Stilinski household and greets his best friend with his perfectly pronounced birth name, Stiles laughs and runs to hug him.  
“But don’t ever say it in front of other people,” he warns, still smiling wide.  
“Never,” Scott agrees, “It’s just for you and me.”

you’ll never know, dear, how much I love you

Stiles loves his name, and he’s terrified of never hearing it again. They are seventeen years old and Scott is lying on hard concrete, still covered in gasoline. As the smoke clears the parking lot and the fog clears his mind, he is just as scared as before. The four teenagers sit up and he feels more than sees Stiles lunge towards him. He engulfs him in a suffocatingly tight grip which Scott gratefully returns. They’re both sobbing and clutching each other and all he can think is thank god thank god Stiles is here.  
“Are you guys okay?” Allison finally interjects, clearly uncomfortable about intruding but also incredibly worried.  
They pull apart reluctantly and Scott nods.  
“We’re not hurt,” he says, because physically it’s true.  
Lydia looks distracted but she still lets out a sigh of relief.  
“You should probably get cleaned up,” Allison tells him, sympathy evident on her face.  
She’s right. Scott is sticky with gasoline and Stiles’s front is covered in it too. But they are both still shaky and emotional so the girls help them up and guide them to their shared room. They stand in the doorway, reluctant to leave, but the boys reassure them that they’re fine. That’s the lie here.  
Lydia and Allison do leave, though, and then they’re alone. One of them should get in the shower but all they do is sit on the edge of one bed quietly. Scott has his eye on Stiles’s hand that is trembling ever so slightly. It’s hard to watch, but he can’t seem to look away. He wants to reach forward and take the pain from his best friend, have it flow black through his veins, but he knows this isn’t the kind of pain that can be leeched away.  
“Did you mean it?” Stiles finally asks softly, “When you said it was really you?”  
He wishes he could immediately answer with a resounding NO. But he couldn’t. Scott swallows nervously.  
“I… I don’t think so,” he whispers, “Not really, no.”  
Stiles stares at him with watery eyes.  
“Scottie…” he licks his lip and shakes his head, “Please, you know… you have to know I meant what I said. I need you, just like I always have. Anywhere you go, I’m going to follow no matter what. That’s what brothers like us do.”  
Scott nods at him slowly.  
“I know,” he says softly back, “I could never leave you alone. Besides, I’d be bored without you anyway.”  
They both crack a small smile at that.  
“It’s just…” Stiles pauses, casting his gaze downward, “Nah, it’s stupid.”  
“No, no, what is it?”  
He bites his lip and keeps his eyes focused on the dirty carpet.  
“I guess I’m just kind of scared of never hearing my name again,” he admitted, “Not the proper way, at least. I know it’s stupid and if you actually died it would be at the bottom of my thoughts but right now… I don’t know… It’s important.”  
“It’s okay,” Scott replies immediately, “I understand. I know it’s important to you, it should be important to you. If you ever need to hear it, I’m always gonna be here, alright? I promise. I know things have changed a lot ever since I was bitten and it’s not just us anymore, but that doesn’t mean that you became less important to me. That couldn’t be further from the truth.”  
Stiles finally looks up at him, amber eyes shining with unshed tears. No verbal request is needed. Scott reaches forward and pulls him into another bone-crushing hug, whispering his name over and over again.   
“Don’t you forget it,” he says, quiet but forceful.   
Stiles merely nods into his shoulder, muttering thanks as he did. Scott knows that they both must get up eventually and clean the gasoline from their bodies. They must leave this motel and get back with the girls and hope that no one else will get hurt. But right here, right now, Scott isn’t worrying about that. He is only focused on Stiles.   
Because Stiles never asks for comfort, he never asks for help. Not really, anyway. He’s always been too proud. The last time Scott uttered his real name, it was their first day of high school and his best friend was tired of botched attempts from new teachers. Plus, he was missing Claudia. Everybody misses Claudia. And so, the realization that it has been over two years since Stiles has heard the name only makes Scott repeat it more.   
Several minutes pass in which he just whispers it over and over again. They hold onto each other and embrace the familiarity, practically breathing in the comfort. Eventually, Stiles pulls away with a laugh.  
“Don’t wear it out now,” he says.  
“As if it ever could be,” Scott smiled.

please don’t take my sunshine away

Stiles loves his name, or at least that’s what he says whenever Scott has to remind him what it is. They are twenty-three years old and Scott is all too familiar with room 306 of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Still, just like clockwork, he walks through the front doors and approaches Melissa at the nurses’ station.  
“Well, it’s not a bad day,” she tells him softly before he even has the chance to ask.  
“But not a good day either?” he questions, voice thick with emotion.  
Ms. McCall just smiles sadly and squeezes his arm. Scott sighs and gives her a quick peck on her check before heading to the elevator. He grips the knapsack in his hands tightly, swallowing hard. It never does get easier. With a light ding, the doors open, and his feet take him down the hall. Scott peers in the room anxiously and the sheriff notices. He gives a tired, not quite genuine smile and stands up.  
“Hey,” the werewolf greets quietly, mindful of the sleeping form in the bed.  
“Scott,” he responds warmly, “On time like always. I guess I better get to work.”  
He nods awkwardly, his heart aching as the father exits the room. It seems the sheriff is too protective of Beacon Hills to take an extended leave, but Scott had overheard him talking to Melissa the day before. He should take a leave soon, she said. She doesn’t want what happened last time to happen again. The sheriff, of course, agreed.  
Scott pushes those thoughts away as he sits down, clutching the knapsack on his lap. Finally, he takes a good luck at his best friend, and sees that not much has changed. His skin is snowy white, unhealthily pale, except for the gray half-circles beneath his eyes. Sweat has stuck some of his hair to his forehead and his fingers cling desperately to the blankets. There are wires going under his hospital gown to attach to his chest and monitor his vitals. An IV is taped to his right hand, giving him the nutrients he can’t bear to consume anymore. He’s looked like this for weeks, but Scott doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to it.  
He sits there quietly for around ten minutes, skimming the pages of his social work textbook but not really taking any of it in. When Scott glances at the bed, he finds squinting eyes looking back at him and he immediately puts the book down and gives a tiny smile.  
“Hey, buddy,” he greets, actively trying to not be too gentle or soft.  
Stiles hates that.  
“Hey,” he replies hoarsely as he struggles to sit up.  
Scott’s fingers twitch with the desire to help but he holds them back. He doesn’t want to start an argument. Besides, Stiles has already succeeded. He’s learned how to live with the aches and pains.   
“So how’s it going?” the werewolf asks casually.  
He raises his eyebrows for a moment in amusement.  
“I don’t know,” he answers, “Nobody tells me anything.”  
Scott just nods and fakes a small laugh, because he knows that’s not technically true. Even when the doctors don’t want to give him the specific details, the sheriff and Melissa tell him it all. It’s not his fault he can’t remember.  
“How about you?” he questions, “College still a pain in the ass?”  
The grin this time is genuine.  
“I think it only gets worse,” Scott says, “but I’m not failing, so… yeah.”  
Stiles nods agreeably and licks his lips, glancing out the window.  
“Have you heard anything from Isaac?” he asks nervously.  
He hesitates. The beta was still in town, but he’s been very reluctant to stop by the hospital. He had hopped on a flight back from France the moment Scott told him Stiles was admitted. Up until then everyone had been hopeful, but there was a big scare and then… nobody was sure about how long he had. Isaac had visited as soon as he arrived, not realizing that it was one of the bad days. Stiles was so apologetic, and he tried so hard, but he just couldn’t remember who this guy was. The beta had left with teary eyes. Now he refuses to come back, no matter how much everybody tries to convince him otherwise.   
“He’s not leaving Beacon Hills,” Scott begins carefully.  
“He’s just scared it’ll happen again,” Stiles finishes with a heavy sigh before muttering, “Well, I am too.”  
He stares at his folded hands, jaw tense from frustration.  
“It’ll be okay,” his best friend reassures, choosing to pretend he didn’t hear the second comment, “He’ll get over it soon.”  
Stiles lets out a huff of disbelief and quickly turns to look at him, eyes wide with urgency.  
“What about everybody else?” he asks desperately, “What have they been up to? I want to know what’s happening, okay? I don’t like being stuck here out of the loop. What if something bad is happening and you guys aren’t telling me? I don’t want to be protected, Scottie. Just tell me. What’s Lydia doing? Or Derek? What about Allison? I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever.”  
Scott’s breathe catches in his throat. Not this again. It’s always so abrupt that he can’t control his reaction, and Stiles notices every time.  
“What?” he questions worriedly.  
Saying the words out never gets easier either.  
“Allison is…” he swallows anxiously, “She’s dead.”  
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and bends over to hold his head in his hands, shaking all over.  
“No, no, that’s not right,” he mumbles, “That can’t be right.”  
Scott carefully gets up to sit beside him on the bed, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
“I’m sorry,” he mutters just before Stiles looks at him again.  
“For how long?” he asks, a ring of red now around his eyes.  
“We were in high school, Stiles,” Scott reminds him gently, “It was the nogitsune.”  
And he hates bringing that up, but he knew that was going to be the next question. These were always the worst days. At the mention of that evil spirit, Stiles actively starts crying again, this time right into Scott’s arms. He tucks his head underneath his chin and caresses his hair gently.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sobs repeatedly.  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Scott whispers firmly, “Nothing was your fault.”  
“Why can’t I remember?” he begs, “It’s all slipping away.”  
He feels himself tearing up. It’s just not fair.  
“I know, buddy, I know.”  
“I don’t want to forget,” he cries, “I wanna stay me.”  
“You will, I promise,” Scott insists, “You’re always gonna be you. No matter what.”  
“How can you know that?”  
“Because I know you,” he says decisively, “and I’ll always be here to remind you.”  
They don’t say anything else for a while. They just sit there in that embrace and cry, and when they finally pull apart it still feels far from okay. But it’s somewhere that Scott can handle for now. He can only hope his best friend feels the same. Stiles leans tiredly against the headrest as the werewolf remains seated on the bed.  
“Hey, Scottie,” he begins quietly, “what’s the name my mom gave me?”  
He sees the guilt and pain in those amber eyes as he answers, loud and clear. Scott desperately hopes he won’t start crying again, but Stiles merely nods and closes his eyes calmly.  
“That’s what I thought.”  
It’s enough to make him smile despite the implications. And when Deaton suggests repeatedly that maybe they should lie to him and keep him calm, they refuse. Scott knows how much it upsets him, but it’s not what Stiles wants. The sheriff knows it too. Even though it hurts, hurts like hell, the pack never lies to him. He wants to remember all the bad and all the good. They went through too much for it to mean nothing. Scott wishes he could keep him by his side forever. He could too, he really could.   
But Stiles was insistent. He wants to stay himself, and that means human.  
“It’s a lot to ask,” he had said in those early days, “but could you be selfless just one more time for me?”  
Selfless. That’s what Stiles had called him. And sure, maybe he is, but he didn’t realize how selfish Scott had always been when it came to Stiles. He took him for granted and yet he was always there when he needed him. Losing people was always hard. Losing Allison? That was a pain Scott thought could never be duplicated, could never be surpassed. It was indescribable. But losing Stiles was unfathomable. Even now, when his chances are zero and his time most assuredly is nearly up, Scott can’t imagine a world without him.  
When the sheriff finally takes a leave from work, it’s still unfathomable. When Melissa calls him in the middle of class, it’s still unfathomable. When the whole pack is gathered in room 306 and the chair opposite from the sheriff is saved for him, it’s still unfathomable. When Stiles gives him permission to say the name in front of everybody else, it’s still unfathomable.   
Lydia Martin finds a cure seven years too late. There are lots of speeches and memorials, but Scott still can’t fully grasp the fact that he’s gone. He’d be furious if he knew all these strangers were saying his name wrong.


End file.
